Pursuit of Happiness
by Ranger75
Summary: The New England island of Blackrock has been relatively peaceful since the Great War, but a storm is coming. Soon events will transpire and change the island forever.
1. Prelude

"_No matter how dark the moment, love and hope are always possible."  
_ - George Chakiris

Off the Eastern Coast of the United States, there is an island called Blackrock. Before the war, it was home to a small community of hard-working New Englanders and host to a multitude of tourists that came and went with each passing season. Though it has been over two hundred years since the last tourist set foot on the island, the denizens of Blackrock Island never abandoned their seaside home. Because of its isolation, it was spared from the nuclear fire that claimed the larger cities along the Eastern Seaboard. However, as the ships stopped coming from the mainland and the lights dimmed and died one by one, those still alive knew that their trials were far from over.

- August 1st, 2279 -

The town of Clark's Cove had changed very little since the war, especially when compared to other cities. Situated on the western shore of Blackrock Island, the settlement could lay claim to being one of the only towns in America that had actually _grown _since the Great War. Before the bombs fell, Clark's Cove had been a quaint fishing town, taking fresh fish and rock lobster inland to the resort on the island and back to Massachusetts on the mainland. The city had really only consisted of one street of small, tidy houses lining the oceanfront, but had grown in the years after the war to include almost one hundred shacks, tents, and huts. Most were built to resemble, at least partially, the original dozen or so New England style homes, and the town- while obviously a shanty by old world standards, would have been a veritable oasis in the eyes of many wastelanders from the mainland. Indeed, the city had transformed in more than looks: the sounds of clumsy generators burning fuel now filled the air, the old smell of fish and saltwater replaced by the odor of manure and compost- a result of the fields tended by many of the inhabitants of Clark's Cove. The citizens worked hard to grow food and raise livestock, and were lucky that both had escaped many of the effects of radiation poisoning- their crops, while thin and weak, were certainly edible and biologically normal, as were their animals. The two-headed cows of the mainland were a world away from the inhabitants of Blackrock Island.

Though the town of Clark's Cove was relatively peaceful, the citizens had long ago decided it wise to elect a town sheriff, who would keep order and protect the town from raiders and hunters. Since anyone in the city can remember, the Winchester family has served in this capacity, and kept the town out of trouble. The current sheriff, Roy Winchester, had attracted something of a scandal about him ever since his wife, Elizabeth, had left town in the middle of the night several years ago, leaving him to raise his daughter Grace on his own. Though Grace was only days away from becoming an adult, her father still was very opposed to allowing her to explore or leave the city, fearing that he would lose her as he did his wife. The young girl, however, very much wanted to at least be a part of the regular patrols that ventured out into the woods to scout for raiders or their paramilitary equivalent- the hunters. Able to use a rifle since she was young, her talent was not in question by anyone, least of all her father, but still she was kept inside the safety of Clark's Creek, far from the adventures she craved. Still, she respected her father and refused to run away without his permission, resigning herself to reside in her hometown until he consented to let her see the rest of the island.

Roy, in keeping with his duties as sheriff, often assigned one of his men to take a walk along the shore late at night and ensure that nothing dangerous or useful, had washed up along the beach, and it could be either discarded or collected as the situation merited. There was usually nothing major, but sometimes broken glass in the sand would injure the children of the town, so it was wise to check every now and again. On this night, however, Roy had elected to take the patrol himself. He needed the time to clear his head and think about the upcoming transition in his daughter's life. She was less than a week away from her eighteenth birthday, and though she was too respectful to bring it up directly, she was tired of living her entire life inside of the same five square mile area. She wanted to go out father away than the outside orchards and fields, to visit the other cities on the island, to see the wilds and the "dead city" that the travelers spoke of. But her father was more wary- he had heard the stories of the outside as well, the stories of raiders and their better-equipped counterparts, the hunters. He had noticed when the travelers would pass through with fewer peopled in their caravans, or when they would simply stop appearing at all. However, he also knew that it would be cruel and unfair to keep her in the town of Clark's Cove for the rest of her life. What Roy was waiting for, and what he prayed for that night, was someone who was strong enough to accompany his daughter, and keep her safe. He knew that he could consent to her leaving if he knew she was in the company of a true soldier, someone who knew the island and it's dangers, and could fight them for her. Suddenly, he was torn back to reality by the reflection of moonlight on skin, caught in between the crashing waves. Shouldering his scoped rifle, he peered at the object. Sure enough, it was flesh. An arm waved helplessly, caught in the waves. Another reason for the patrols was that sometimes the raiders would dismember enemies or corpses they came across- or simply toss their victims into the ocean- and sometimes the body parts would drift back to the shore of Clark's Cove. It was neither decent nor sanitary to allow such things to rot on the shore, so the town doctors would usually dispose of the remains. Roy trudged off towards the arm, his thick-soled boots sinking into the wet sand as he stepped off of the wooden boardwalk.

Drowning is itself an awful way to die. Simply holding your breath is nothing compared to the heavy, burning pain that comes from your lungs screaming out for air, only to be smothered by the weight of the water. One poor soul in particular had just awoken to find himself uncomfortably aware of this unique pain, and begun kicking his legs feverishly, only to find that they were bound tightly. As he tried to move his arms, he found that his wrists were likewise bound. Knowing that his arms were slightly stronger than his legs, he fought desperately to free his hands as his vision narrowed. He knew that if he gave in and tried to inhale, the escaping breath would make his less buoyant and doom him, but the immense weight of suffocation was bearing down on him, his body begged for him to take a breath. Just as the light of the surface had almost faded, he freed his hands and pushed out several quick, powerful strokes, propelling him almost to the surface. Giving everything he had left, he pushed one last time, and broke the surface with his face first, gasping for the cool night air. Saltwater laced the air tumbling into his lungs, and he still teetered on the edge of unconsciousness, but he was able to keep afloat. As his vision cleared slightly, he soon became aware of twinkling lights off to his right side, and the sound of lapping waves. Though he was near delirium, one clear thought rang out in his mind- a city! He kicked and paddled feverishly, racing his blacking vision to make it to the shore. Soon, he was able to feel the soft, watery silt of the shore under his feet. He tried to drag himself, but the silt gave way under his weight. He tried once more, slower, and was able to thrust himself almost onto the shore. He took one last breath, then was lost in the darkness.

Roy continued to meander towards the arm, not particularly looking forward to having to either wake up the town doctor- who had a set of protective clothing for such situations- or dig a hole and bury the remains himself. As he walked, the lights seemed to play a trick on him- as the arm rolled forward in the waves, he could swear he saw the fingers clench, almost forming a fist. He stopped dead in his tracks, and sure enough, when the arm came forward again, it grasped some of the sand, clenching at the dry land. Roy took off running, closing the distance quickly. He soon saw that the arm was attached to a human being, one who seemed to be grasping to the last straws of life. He grasped the hand in his own, then pulled the person, a man, from the waves. Pulling him onto the shore and confirming his vitals, he quickly pulled the barely-alive stranger onto his shoulders and carted him away to the town doctor.


	2. Lost in Translation

- August 3rd, 2279 -

Against her father's wishes, Grace had elected to sneak into the town hospital and get a look at the mysterious stranger that had washed up on the beach earlier that week. The entire town had been talking about him, especially the younger ladies.

"Oh, I hope he's handsome!" proclaimed Scarlet, while she helped Grace clean one of the town's horses, Champion. "I just hope he's not a killer," answered Grace, using a metal pick to remove mud and grass from one of the horse's shoes. "Have some imagination!" said Scarlet with a small shove, "What if he's some kind of bandit prince, come to take me away to be his queen?" Grace snorted, "If he takes you as his queen, then I'm for sure worried about his mental state!"

Now that Grace could see him, however, it was obvious that Scarlet would be satisfied with the young man who rested on Doc Roberts' operating table. He was very handsome, with short, black hair, cut like the soldiers from the nearby airfield. He was well muscled, not burly like the woodcutters from town, but more like the scouts and trappers who would disappear into the woods for days at a time. As Grace took a step closer, she noticed that though Doc Roberts had changed his clothes, he still smelled of saltwater. Grace was reminded of one of the big fish the fishermen would hang up on the dock to clean. Though she could barely make it out in the dim light of the operating room, she noticed a tattoo on his left hand, in the shape of a small, five-pointed star. Beneath the star were what looked to be words, but Grace could not read them, they looked to be nonsense to her. As her eyes adjusted even more, the extent of his injuries soon became clear. Her father had said that the man had been shot several times, as well as cut and scraped enough to make it obvious that he had been shot. His ankles and wrists were still bruised, which Grace guessed was from being bound, as her father had described.

Her curiosity satisfied, Grace cut the power to the operating lights- the only electric lights in town- and turned to leave. Before she could make it to the door, however, she was startled by a coughing fit coming from the man on the table. Jumping in fright and surprise, she turned back to flip the lights on again, only to trip over herself and tumble to the ground. Scrambling to her feet, she knocked over a tray of surgical instruments, sending them clattering to the cold tile floor. Finally finding the light switch, she turned about and looked behind her. The man was gone, the table was empty. Before she could even gasp, she was lifted off the ground and slammed into the concrete wall behind her. Her vision wavered, then cleared: the man from the table was holding her against the wall, holding a scalpel to her throat. His eyes widened when he saw her face- she was not who he had been expecting to be skulking around his unconscious body. A raider or scavenger maybe, but a young farm girl? "Where am I?" he asked, his voice firm and commanding. "In a h-hospital!" Grace stammered, "Y-you were hurt- you almost drowned! We brought you here!" His eyes darted back and forth, searching her face for signs of deception. He opened his mouth to speak again, but Grace heard a loud _crack_ and he slumped forward, dropping both Grace and the scalpel onto the floor. Grace looked upwards, and saw her father, pistol in hand, staring down at her. "You are in a _lot_of trouble, young lady," he said.

- August 4th, 2279 -

"So he just grounded you?" asked Scarlet, sitting on the straw-stuffed bed in Grace's bedroom. "That's not bad."

"Easy for you to say," responded Grace, "And besides, he said he's got something else for me to do later." Scarlet reached into her cute, pre-war backpack and pulled out a small object. "Well, I brought you something to help pass the time," she said, holding up a comic book. "La Fantoma!, Issue 12, only a couple of missing pages!" she declared proudly, setting the book gently down on Grace's bed. "Thank you!" said Grace, excitedly looking through the first few pages before Scarlet snatched it back. "It's not for free though," she said with a mischievous smile, "You have to tell me all about our mystery man first." Grace rolled her eyes, but agreed. "Alright," she began, "He's really strong. Like when he woke up he was all confused and lifted me off the ground with one hand." Scarlet's eyes widened, and she motioned for Grace to continue. "He looks a lot like one of the soldiers from Hanscom airfield, like with his haircut and how he talked and everything."

"He talked to you?" asked Scarlet, hanging on every word. "What did he say?"

"Like I said," Grace explained, "He was just really confused when he woke up. He asked me where he was but my dad knocked him out before he could do much anything else." Scarlet frowned, "Your dad shouldn't have done that," she said. "Now he's going to hate all of us and he's not going to marry me," she said with only a little sarcasm. "Well sorry to burst your bubble, but the guy's first instinct was to try and knife me with a scalpel. He hardly seems like a romantic."

"Says you," answered Scarlet, handing over the comic book. "Maybe I like dangerous men."

Later that afternoon, Roy Winchester called Grace downstairs to the living room of their home. Roy was seated on the family's overstuffed couch, next to him was the man from the previous night. With the anger and confusion gone from his face, Grace noticed, he _was _reasonably attractive. "More than reasonably, honey," said the voice of Scarlet inside her head. "Take a seat, Grace," her father said, gesturing to the recliner across from him. As she sat, he explained, "I believe you've met Mr. Sharp," nodding towards the man. "John Sharp. I apologize for last night," he said, in a much softer voice than he had used the previous night. "I was, and still am very confused." Her father interjected, "Let me explain. Mr. Sharp here, as you know, was attacked and almost drowned a few days ago. He can't remember a lot," he said with a look towards John, who nodded. "I can't remember much of anything," he said in an even quieter voice. "But that's not important right now. What is important is that he is still recovering, and the doctor would like him up and about for the next week. However," he paused, "Doc Roberts and I would both like it if you could show him around town. Try and get him back up to speed." Grace looked at her father and understood that it was either this, or stay grounded for another month. She smiled, "Sure, I would love to help."


	3. Gentle Waves

August 5th, 2279

"This is the general store," said Grace, walking John around town. "The owner- Mr. George- says that it hasn't ever been closed on a weekday, not even for the Great War." At this, John tilted his head. "It's miraculous, I can remember a lot about the history of our country and the war and… pretty much everything, but nothing about myself." Grace asked a question as they started walking again, "Do you mind if I ask how you remembered your name then? You seemed pretty out of it that night at the hospital." John replied, "Again, I am very sorry for that. This whole ordeal is obviously still going to take me some time to sort out." Grace nodded, leading him though the original street of Clark's Cove, where all the original buildings were. "As for my name," he continued, "The doctor found it on a pocket bible on my person. It had birthday and name… but that's it."

"And how old are you?" asked Grace.

"I'll be twenty two next month, apparently," answered John, while gazing down the street.

"Well," said Grace, continuing her tour, "you know a lot of the original buildings on the island survived the war."

"Because none of the bombs hit Blackrock directly," finished John. "But the radiation of one of the offshore explosions poisoned the city of Ravenwood, to the north." Grace turned, interested and curious. "You know about the dead city?" she asked. "Well," John explained, "Obviously I don't know whether I've been there or not, or even where I learned about it, but I know about it." He shot her a quizzical look, "Why do you want to know about it?" he asked. "Are you some sort of explorer?"

"I wish," she sighed. "But I'm only a girl. And even if I was old enough, my dad wouldn't let me go, especially after my mom-" she stopped. "Nevermind."

The pair walked in silence for a while, until Grace stopped by the wharf and sat on a bench. "She left," she continued, "When I was little. I can barely even remember her." John was displeased that the conversation had taken such a personal turn, but hid his feelings and tried to comfort the girl. "Well," he started, "Obviously I can't remember mine at all, so you're in a better boat than me already." Grace smiled a little, then spoke again. "I mean, I'm not depressed about it anymore or anything," she said, "I just wish I could put it behind me. It's clear that my dad thinks about it a lot, and… I don't know… sometimes he turns those feelings on me."

"What do you mean?" asked John, already far out of his comfort zone as far as conversations go. "Well," said Grace, "Like with me leaving Clark's Cove. I want it more than anything, I want to go see things and do things, but my dad wants to keep me here-" she gestured around at the waterfront. "From what I can remember about the rest of the island," said John, nodding at their surroundings, "here is comparatively a pretty nice place." Grace sighed, and said nothing for a few minutes. Eventually, she stood and the pair continued walking towards the edge of town.


	4. Elsewhere

-August 6th, 2279-

Deeper into the mainland, a group of individuals waited in the dark, crouching in waist-high grass, invisible to all but the most expert eyes. The six men and women in the group were well armed and armored, stronger and faster than the raiders and more disciplined than the hunters. Presently, they observed a small farm about two hundred meters to the south of their location. One of them, holding a scoped rifle, muttered to his companions. "Two sets of two guards," he noted, "One lookout in the farmhouse." Another nodded, and spoke in a feminine voice. "The intel was right on," she said, taking her assault rifle off of safety. She issued a quick series of hand motions, and the group split into two teams, advancing unseen towards the farm. The soft soil left deep impressions of their boots behind, but they doubted anyone would be left to follow them.

Their target, the farm, was a typical sight on Blackrock Island. Though the houses had survived the nuclear fires that had made pre-War houses on the mainland as rare as a unicorn, few people had the equipment or the will to live outside of the cities and fend off the constant raider attacks. The raiders were more of a nuisance than a real threat, but their presence made living inside one of the cities even more preferred by the islanders. Thus, abandoned houses dotted the landscape, sometimes inhabited by honest travelers or settlers, but mostly housing vagrants and raiders.

As they came up on the farmhouse, the soldier with the scoped rifle paused for hardly a second, aimed, fired, and continued advancing with his two other squad mates. The lookout who had been standing on the sun deck of the Victorian-style house hit the ground with a soft thud, a bullet hole still smoking under his right eye. As they closed the remaining distance, the vast discrepancy in training and tactics between the six soldiers and their targets became even more obvious- using long-bladed knives and silenced weapons, they dispatched the remaining twenty-four raiders with ease, stopping only to conform their kill count. However, upon clearing the last room of the farmhouse, they were displeased. "He's not here," said a second female, fidgeting anxiously. "We'll find him," said the sniper, "Just not tonight." He placed his left hand on her shoulder, revealing a tattoo- a small star above words in an old, dead language. "Now let's move," he said to the rest of the group, "We've still got a lot of ground to cover."

-August 17th, 2279-

John had begun to fit in a little around Clark's Cove in the week following his unusual arrival, earning a good reputation by helping out the townspeople with a variety of things. Grace had fulfilled her obligation to show him around, but still spent much of her free time with him. She found him more interesting than the others in the town, and enjoyed the jealous looks the other girls gave her when they say the pair together. She also found that she was learning a lot just by being around him. Though he could still remember very little, John had a seemingly inexhaustible list of talents, and helped out with everything from fixing the old dehumidifiers used to gather clean water to patching the roofing on a few of the houses. Grace worked with him most days, trying to learn as much as she could, both about the task at hand and about John himself. For his part, John was very quiet most of the time they were together. Grace thought he seemed rather introverted. He could carry on a conversation well enough and was polite to a fault, but did not seek out companionship from any of the town's ladies, nor did he attend any of the town functions other than the church service held in the old chapel. Grace had also seen him reading out of the pocket bible that bore his name. When she questioned him about it, he responded, "This book," he gestured to his bible, "I can't really describe it, but it... it comforts me. Right know I feel kind of lost, so any kind of stability and comfort goes a long way." Grace was taken aback by his conviction, most people in the town attended church simply out of habit, and the few that owned a pre-War bible did not read them often.

Despite his religious convictions, it was becoming more and more obvious to Grace- as well as the other townspeople- that John must have been a soldier of some kind before his arrival in Clark's Cove. In addition to his rigid discipline and athletic build, he made regular appearances at the town's shooting range and demolished the targets with frightening accuracy. A few of the deputies had started talking about convincing him to go out on patrol with them, and privately Grace thought that John could probably manage just fine doing the patrols by himself. However, soon enough her father had taken notice of his abilities, and sent for him. Grace listened to their conversation from her upstairs room.

Her father explained that the townspeople were in need of a replacement radio transmitter to be placed at the top of a nearby ridgeline, which jutted up sharply before curtailing out to sea, which provided the perfect point at which to place a radio antenna. The old transmitter had been damaged by some unknown creature, and to maintain in radio contact with the other settlements in the area, it must be replaced. Roy offered to pay him out of the town's bounty fund, but John waved him off. "I'll set out in the morning," he said, already getting to his feet. "It'll be done in two days."


	5. Accompanied

-August 18th, 2279-

John rose early, preparing to set out to fix the radio transmitter. The night before, he had gotten all his gear together, and mentally reviewed his task while he showered. He was glad for the running water, the town had given him a room in the pre-War hotel when he had moved out of the hospital. As he showered, he glanced again at the tattoo on his hand. He had often looked at it while he tried to remember, hoping that though it he could learn something of who he was. The small, five-pointed star held no clues, but he wished he knew something of the words beneath. "Libertas," he said aloud, having sounded out the strange words several times, "Libertas Non Est Liberum." He knew it had to be a foreign language, but of what sort he had no idea. He had waited patiently for his memories to return for the first few days, but it had been over a week since he had washed up on the sands of Clark's Cove, and he still had no idea what circumstances had brought him to the town. He could still recall bits and pieces- information, but nothing personal. He felt like he had read the beginner's manual to his life, but had not actually set eyes on the product yet.

Coming out of the shower, he ran through some simple exercises before reviewing his load again. He intended to travel light, and travel with speed instead of security. He was not worried about his own well being, he doubted that anything in the woods could stand up to whatever he was. John hoped that "what he was" fell more along the lines of an honorable soldier than a brutal raider, but his knee-jerk reaction to Grace's question about his bible made that seem less likely. Still, John had no way of knowing where his skills came from, and hoped that it was from an honorable profession. He checked and rechecked his weapons- he had only requested a knife, a pistol, and a longbow for his trip. In the past few days on the range, he had found himself to be very accurate with a number of weapons. However, he had decided that a long rifle or an assault rifle would be overly cumbersome, and so he would use the bow for ranged encounters. He placed the rest of his gear into his rucksack, and shouldered it.

As he left town, he tried to walk quietly as to not wake anyone- the sun had still not risen. When he passed the stables, a horse let out a whinny. John had considered taking a horse, but when he found a map of his target location, he realized that the terrain would become almost vertical in some places, meaning that a horse would prove less useful than some paracord and rock pins. He continued on his way, but saw something out of the corner of his eye, behind the horse. He turned and looked again, but whatever it was had left, or hidden. John was not overly concerned. Some of the townspeople were shy around him, especially the local girls. John was too weary to pursue any romance in Clark's Cove, and also reasoned that he had no idea if he was married or otherwise involved with someone from his home. "Wherever that may be," he had thought to himself.

As he walked, the gentle grass of Clark's Cove became coarser and taller, gradually becoming the scrub of the plains. He pushed further on, and some sparse trees began popping up around him. Eventually, he found the worn deer trail that Roy had mentioned. Apparently, the terrain would get much harder in the next hundred meters. Indeed, underbrush became almost impassible to John, and he soon had to come up with an alternate idea. Looking around, he spotted a tall tree that seemed climbable. Tightening the straps on his pack and the laces on his boots, he pulled himself up the tree and sat on top of the lowest level of braches, about ten feet off of the ground. Testing a branch that spread in the right direction, he found it could support his weight. He gingerly walked along it, stopping before it became too thin to support him. At this point, he was two feet away from the next tree, and still low enough to the ground that jumping probably wouldn't injure him. He crouched low, the branch sagging for a second, then jumped to the next tree, grabbing the limb with his hands and hauling himself up. He continued in this manner for the next few hours, and was soon at the base of the ridgeline that would take him to his objective. By this time it was nightfall, and John elected to sleep in the branches of the tree so he could avoid the wildlife. He climbed up another set of branches, and found one that webbed out and could support him even if he shifted his weight. He used the straps of his pack to secure it, and in turn secured his weapons to his pack. He kept the knife embedded in the tree close to him, just in case. After pulling his blanket over top of himself, he soon went to sleep.

He was soon awakened, however, by crunching, rapid footsteps underneath him. Slowly, he rolled his blanket off of him and drew his knife out of the tree trunk. He had requested one with a blackened blade, so in situations like this the flashing would not give him away. He cautiously climbed down to the lowest set of branches, still about ten feet off the ground. He perched, knife in hand, and waited for the perpetrator to pass. The footsteps became louder, and soon John could make out a figure, what he guessed to be a female, moving on the same path he was. Whether she was following him or not, he was unsure of how someone of her stature could have navigated the undergrowth almost as quickly as he had. As the stranger passed underneath, John decided that it was better to be safe than sorry, and he could always apologize if the person was just a lost traveler. He turned his knife so as to avoid accidentally harming the person before he could determine their intentions, then lunged out of the tree, toppling the person and pinning them to the ground. "Don't move," he ordered in a quiet but very firm voice. "Who are yo-" he stopped as he flipped the person over. "Grace? What are you doing here?"


	6. Demons

-August 19th, 2279-

The raiders of Blackrock Island were unlike the ones found on the mainland. They were not usually immediately identifiable- looking for the most part like a normal islander. They were also not usually deranged, though by no means were they professional. On this day in particular, seven raiders moved down an old dirt road situated between Clark's Cove and Hanscom Memorial Airfield.

"Hey Sammy," one called, his rifle slug casually over his shoulder, "Were we headed next?" The raider called Sammy turned, answering, "I think we're going to send someone into Clark's Cove and trade for some supplies."

"Into town?" asked another raider, "The people there are cool with us?"

"I keep on forgetting you're new to this. We do it all the time," answered Sammy, "We only send in one guy, with the story that he's a traveler and needs just a few essentials to make it to the next town. They don't ask too many questions."

"Can I be the guy?" asked the new raider. "No," answered three or four of the others in unison, rolling their eyes. "You've gotta wait your turn," explained another one of the raiders. "Aw, screw you guys," muttered the new guy, obviously unsatisfied. They continued along, chatting, enjoying the midday sun. This particular group of raiders had just come from a job along the coast outside of Scott Manor, a small town of ten or twelve people north of Clark's Cove. They had tracked a pair hunting old pre-War artifacts, and stolen them out of their camp after they had been recovered. They had made off with bindles of artifacts and records, worth quite a bit to the right people on the island. They had gotten the idea for the heist from some chatter going around the taverns about a group of soldiers who were really into history and willing to buy artifacts. Most of the raiders were apprehensive about doing business with them, however, all that they knew was that they were top-tier killers and could be identified by tattoos on their hands. "Sounds worse than the hunters," mused one of the group when they had heard about them. Rumors had been going around about an elite group of killers for a while now, but only recently had anyone actually seen one of them in real life. For some reason or another, they had shown themselves in several of the towns, asking around for information or talking to the sheriff. No one knew for sure what they were looking for, but everyone hoped it wasn't them.

As the raiders approached a switchback in the road, the one in front turned to say something, but never got the chance to open his mouth. With a _swish _and _pop_, his neck erupted in a fountain a black-red arterial blood. "Run!" shouted one raider, turning down the road and sprinting several feet before another bullet tore through his kneecap, knocking him to the ground. By now, the raider who had been shot first lay still in a pool of his own blood, and two others were wounded, bleeding out in the dirt. The others had fallen behind several outcroppings of rock, hoping to find cover. "Who the hell is shooting at us?" asked one of them, whispering as if he could avoid being shot if no one could hear him. "I don't know," hissed back another, "I don't know where he's at either!" The six remaining raiders sat behind the rock for ten minutes, listening in horror to the two follow-up shots ending the lives of the two who had been wounded. "Do you think he's gone?" asked one. "Why don't you go check, huh?" sneered another, crouching as close to the ground as he could.

After another minute of silence, the new recruit declared suddenly in a whisper, "I'm running!" Another shot him a glare, hissing, "Idiot! Stay down!" But he was determined, and responded, "I'm not dying here! I'm leaving!" He stood up, and ran hard across the road. The other raiders watched with baited breath, but nothing happened. He crossed the road, and made it to the edge of the nearby wood safely. He turned back, and waved the others on. "I guess they're gone," said one of them. "It's safe," agreed another, starting to get to his feet. They gingerly began to make their way toward the treeline, slowly until they realized they were no longer under fire. The first one to run was already into the wood, long gone. The others made it several yards beyond the trees before they found him, his throat slashed open. "Oh god," screamed one of the raiders, before they scattered. Some ran back to the rocks, but the majority took off into the woods. They soon made it to a clearing, and the first one to get there ran out, barely visible in the waist-high sawgrass. The others started after him, but paused when they heard another gunshot echo across the field. Suddenly, they could see their attackers, moving towards them quickly though the grass. "Hunters!" exclaimed one raider before catching a bullet in the chest. By this time, the hunters were cutting down the last of the raiders, firing their rifles with lethal accuracy into the trees. In just a few seconds, only two remained. One, a woman, turned to her companion, then ran alongside the field, with the other raider close behind. They ran through the grass and into a marsh, splashing though the ankle-deep murk in their boots. After about fifty yards, the man tripped, his foot ensnared in a tree root. The female hesitated, then turned back to help him. "Thank you," he said as she freed him, "Thank yo-" He was abruptly cut off by a machete protruding through his neck. The woman screamed, crawling backwards as a hunter withdrew his blade, wiping it slowly on his pants. He was clad in a cross between a military uniform and a tribal costume, with several pistols, knives, and ornaments adorning him. He was masked, like so many other hunters, and hulking with muscle. "You're alone," he declared to the woman in a raspy, angry voice. She had backed up against a tree trunk, and was out of room. She had nowhere left to go, and she knew it. She began to shake, her breath coming in short, rapid gasps, tears rolling down her face. The hunter closed the distance between them, unholstering one of his pistols in a swift movement, and bringing it up to woman's chest. "And now you're dead," he finished, pulling the trigger.


	7. Hunted

-August 20th, 2279-

"I have to tell your dad," declared John as he escorted Grace up a mountain trail. "He'll notice that you've gone anyways."

"Don't do that!" implored Grace, "He thinks I'm out with one of the fishing boats anyways! You don't have to tell him!"

"Listen," replied John, carrying the weight of both his gear and Grace's, "I'm trying to earn the trust of your father and your town. I need their help if I'm going to get anywhere." He paused to boost Grace over a small rock face, then pulled himself before continuing. "I like you, you seem really nice," he said, "And I get that you want to see the outside. I do." He paused again to pull a thorn branch out of the way. "But this all boils down to lying to your father. That's just not something I'm willing to do, especially after him giving me a chance like this."

"Giving you a chance?" said Grace, growing exasperated. "He's just making you fix our radio because everyone else was too afraid to come up here!"

John turned and gave Grace a warning glance. "Your father certainly didn't seem afraid," he said. "And besides, I don't care why they asked me to do this, if I help out your people they might help me."

Grace was silent, then spoke again. "If my dad isn't afraid, then why won't he let me leave town? Seriously, what's so bad about out here?" She gestured to the trees around them. "We haven't seen anything living, let alone anything that would hurt me."

"You've brought this up before," he said, shifting the weight on his pack. "And it's not my call. I'm probably the person who can help you with that the least. Why should anyone in your town trust my opinion about something like this? They don't know me."

Grace looked at him, taken aback. "Have you been listening at all over the past week?" she asked. "Everyone is talking about you! Everyone wants to know what you know, what you've seen! You're just so… so…."

"Different?" finished John, rolling his eyes.

"Not the word I was going for," continued Grace, "I mean… experienced. Rugged. Something like that."

"Ooh, I'm rugged. Good to know," said John in a half-mocking voice.

"No really!" said Grace, "Even if you can't remember right now, it's obvious that you've been all over! You've seen things!"

"So have any one of the half-dozen travelers passing through your town every day," responded John. "What makes me different from them?"

"Can you seriously not tell the difference?" asked Grace, pulling her hair back again after a branch tugged it loose. "They're just vagrants, travelers, peddlers, but you… you're like a real soldier! You embarrass all the deputies every time you practice on the range! You've done more work for us in a week than most people do in a year!"

"That's not enough to earn trust," said John. "Your town might be interested in me, but I know for sure they don't trust me. Not yet."

"Scarlet trusts you," responded Grace with a small snort.

"Who's Scarlet?" asked John, kicking a dead branch out of the way.

"One of my friends," Grace said, "I think she's in love with you. Actually I think all the girls in town are."

"Is that so?" said John, "That seems a bit silly."

"Are you kidding?" said Grace, "You washed up all mysteriously on our beach, looking like some kind of action hero… Every on of the girls in town expects you to propose any day now."

"Is that so?" responded John, smiling. "Then maybe I should wonder why one of those very girls followed me all the way out here against her father's wishes."

"Wha- No. No. I didn't-" stammered Grace, her face turning bright red.

"Relax, I'm just messing with you," said John with a chuckle. "We're almost there, anyway."

The radio tower itself was about thirty feet high, rusting and for the most part held together by extra plates and beams bolted on. John and grace gingerly climbed the ladder, stopping before they reached the top. The final section of the staircase had been destroyed, the steps themselves blown apart. "What happened here?" asked Grace, "Nothing's wrong with the rest of the stairs."

"I think someone didn't want anyone else getting to the top," said John. "Looks like a grenade blew these stairs- I'm surprised the tower held together after the explosion." He dropped his pack and Grace's, saying, "If you can boost me a bit, I can climb up." Grace put her hands together, hoisting John to the uppermost platform of the tower. As he climbed up, John immediately found who had caused the explosion- a man lay dead, sprawled with his back against the main antennae. "Jesus," he muttered under his breath. Even for a dead man, the body was ghastly- the man looked as if he had been ripped at by several wild animals, and had retreated to the top of the tower in a last-ditch attempt to survive. He tentatively stepped over the man, affixing the radio transmitter in its rightful place, confirming it was operating by the small blinking light on the top. "We're done here," he called to Grace, "I'll be right down!" But as he stepped back over the man, something caught his eye- a mask, discarded by the man's body. Suddenly, something clicked in John's head, and he remembered something else- "This man was a hunter," he said to himself. He knew about hunters- elite raiders who killed with skill and without remorse. Now that he looked more carefully, he could see the dead man's gear scattered around. His weapon was still grasped, spent and broken, in his hands. John stepped closer, intrigued. "_What could have caused a hunter to die like this?" _thought John, edging closer. By now, Grace was growing impatient. "What's going on up there?" she yelled up. John turned to answer, but before he could, the eyes of the hunter snapped open, and locked on John. "Jesus!" John swore again, and tried to step back, but the not-quite-dead man had locked his hands around John's boot. The hunter opened his mouth, and spoke in a low, raspy voice, "Who… are… you?"


	8. Dread Infection

-August 20th, 2279-

Grace and John had moved the injured hunter to the base of the radio tower. They had given him rudimentary medical attention, but it was obvious that he would not survive for long. John sent Grace back up the tower to attach the radio transmitter while he tried to pry some information out of the dying hunter. The injured man had at first been barely able to speak, but now that he had some water to drink he was a little more lucid. "I know you're a hunter," said John to the injured man, "and I know what they're like." John paused, picking up the man's mask and looking it over. "What happened to you?" he asked. The hunter coughed, then answered, "You wouldn't believe it if I told you." John leaned in closer, looking the dying man in the eyes. "Humor me," he said. The hunter coughed again, this time spitting some blood on the ground after he was done. "Fine," he said, "I'll tell you everything."

-August 19th, 2279-

The raiders moved down the old road towards Clarks Cove in broad daylight, continuing to make it impossibly easy for Aziel and Taryal to follow them. The two hunters had followed the oblivious raiders since they stole the pre-war artifacts from Scott Manor. Though there were nine raiders and only two hunters, both Aziel and his companion felt no fear- either one of them could easily kill ten raiders on their own. Hunters, far from the unprofessional and disordered raiders, were trained killers: working in loose tribes often ten to twelve in size, hunters cast off their birth names and occupations to hunt and kill, dedicating themselves to their group and their skill in combat. Some were born as hunters, but others were just normal citizens or raiders who wanted to be powerful and feared, as the hunters promised.

Aziel and Taryal were from different tribes, Aziel came from a small but powerful group located on a small island several miles off the coast of Blackrock, while Taryal came from a tribe located in the coastal grottos towards the north. A strange disease had ravaged the island home of Aziel, and the chief of his tribe had sent him to Taryal's people to seek assistance. They believed that one of the artifacts known to be in a pre-war storage site near Scott Manor contained information and perhaps a cure for the disease. Thus, the two hunters prepared to intercept the raiders and claim the cure for themselves. Situated on a ridge a little less than a mile away from the road, Aziel chambered a .300 Winchester magnum-filled magazine into his scoped rifle. Taryal held a pair of binoculars up to his face, serving as a spotter. "Take the one in front," he said, "About twelve-hundred meters to target." Aziel held the rifle steady, looked through the scope, then fired, the propellant gas obscuring his view of the target for a second. "Clean hit," said Taryal, "Go for the one running." After several more shots, the pair packed up their gear and prepared to move in closer to finish off the survivors. "They'll run to the woods," said Aziel, referring to the raiders. "Of course they will," said Taryal, grinning, "They're scared."

They moved to a location near to where the remaining raiders were hiding, moving through the wood like it was a paved road. When the first raider moved into the woods, Aziel dropped from a tree and cut his throat. The others were soon cut down with assault rifle fire, until only two were left. Taryal had gone to clear out the two who had gone back to the road, and Aziel moved in on the two runners. One, a man, got his leg trapped in a vine, and Aziel ran his machete though the man's throat. Only one was left, and was crawling backwards, trying to escape. "You're alone," Aziel noted, feeling no pity or remorse. He drew a pistol. "And now you're dead." He shot her in the chest, and she slumped over.

Aziel quickly noticed something odd. Though the woman fell over, he could see no blood. He knelt and checked for a pulse. Indeed, the woman was still alive. He pulled her forward and checked for an exit wound, but found none. Rolling his eyes, Aziel opened a pocket on the front of her jacket, and drew out a pack of cards. Looking closely, he saw that his bullet was stuck halfway through the pack. "It's your lucky day, I guess," he said with a dry chuckle. Leaving the woman, he went back to the road. Taryal had started rummaging through the bodies before Aziel arrived, a grey metal tin about the size of a can of soda, stamped in lettering he could not read. Opening it, Taryal saw that it contained two syringes holding a dark red liquid. Beneath the syringes was a piece of carefully folded paper. He rummaged through the container to withdraw it, and in doing so cut a finger on the tip of one of the syringes. "Ouch," he hissed, closing the tin with a snap.

Aziel and he met up and moved towards the shore, where a boat would take them back to their respective homes the next day. They set up a small camp to the north of Clark's Cove, far enough away that they could not see the twinkling lights of the town. "It's a pity we couldn't stay in town," joked Taryal, "I hear the sheriff's daughter is quite lovely." Aziel laughed, looking up from the paper Taryal had found in the tin. Aziel was not fluent in German, the language the paper was written in, but he knew enough to piece together the meaning of document. "Do you mind if I ask you something?" continued Taryal. Aziel nodded, still pouring over the paper. "What kind of disease is it that you're trying to fight?" At this, Aziel put down the paper, some of the color draining from his face. "It is the stuff of demons," he said, his lip curling in anger. "Once a person is infected, it brings death. It is not an easy way to go. But it's true horror comes after the victim has died- I have not seen it myself, but there are those that claim that it brings them back, angry and hungry." Taryal's eyes widened, "Back from the dead?"

"That is what the people who sent me for this cure say. That it brings back the dead, and they hunt other humans. They are stupid and angry, but killing them once again is very difficult. A bullet to the head is the quickest way to kill the creatures- shooting the body mostly does nothing."

Were it not for the seriousness of Aziel's tone and gaze, Taryal would have thought that he was joking. "Well then," he said, unnerved by the revelation, "It is good that we have the cure."


	9. Bloodied

-August 20th, 2279-

"Am I supposed to believe that?" asked John, standing over the dying hunter. "This mysterious disease you're supposed to be fighting- it kills you, then brings you back?"

"Why would I lie?" insisted the man, "And how else do you suppose I got like this?" He gestured to his mangled, broken body.

"You said the cure for whatever this is came from before the war," continued John, still unbelieving but recognizing the serious potential of the situation. "Then why has no one ever brought up this before? There are still plenty of people familiar with pre-war history."

"This wasn't exactly font-page news of the time," said the man, clearly wanting John to believe him. "Listen, I suppose it doesn't matter if I tell you this now- my group, my tribe, we found an old bunker on one of the smaller islands. In an underwater cave, we found a submarine- old by even pre-war standards. It came from a foreign nation, called Germany. America had a war with them long ago, and their scientists grew desperate towards the end. Eventually, they formulated the disease and loaded it onto a submarine to infect the American homefront with the virus. However, the ship crashed just before the war ended- the crew abandoned it here on Blackrock, and we found it. One of my brothers contaminated himself while exploring the ship, and brought the disease back, three hundred years after it's makers intended."

"Thanks for the history lesson," said John, "But how do you know all of this?"

"I learned their language," said the hunter with a bit of pride, "Bits of it at least- from the papers in the wreck. They were in English and German. I was directed by my chief to be the one to end this outbreak." He paused, coughing up another wad of blood. "But now I'm just another casualty."

"What did happen to you?" asked John curiously.

"Taryal, my companion, he cut himself on the vial, as I mentioned," said the hunter, revealing himself to be Aziel.

"Yes," said John, "But the vial contained the cure. Is it dangerous?"

"It wasn't the cure," said Aziel coldly, "Not anymore. If it's not refrigerated it decays into just another sample of the virus in a matter of minutes. Whoever the bastard is who added that little twist to the strain, I'm sure that he has his own little special circle of hell all to himself."

"So the other hunter…" asked John, trailing off.

"Got infected, died that night," said Aziel cruelly, "Then came back. He just… wouldn't die. These things, they aren't just angry people. I shot him literally dozens of times. The stomach, the arms, legs… I finally got him through the brain- on my last bullet too." He laughed a bit, then coughed up more blood. "But he got me torn up, and just one bite is enough." John felt like his veins were filling up with ice. The more the man talked, the more he knew he wasn't lying. Aziel was either delusional or telling the truth. "I climbed up to the radio tower to try and report to the others, but it didn't work- for obvious reasons." After he finished speaking, his head fell to the ground, blood leaking from the corner of his mouth. "I don't envy you," he said faintly, "There's one hell of a storm coming- both from my people, and from these creatures. I can tell you now you aren't ready. Not even close."

"What do you mean, your people?" yelled John, shaking Aziel's shoulder violently. "What are they planning?" But he was already gone, his eyes glazed over. John spat next to the dead man and almost swore, but thought better of it. _In times like these, offending God is just about the last thing I should do, _he thought.

Grace had finally descended from the tower, the radio transmitter was repaired. She gasped when she saw Aziel lying dead, "Is he… is he dead?"

John stood, straightening himself. "Yes," he said curtly, "And it's time for us to go."

"Let me grab my pack," said Grace, looking away from the dead man.

"I'll go find the trail again," said John, stepping back to the woodline and finding the path that would lead him back to Clark's Cove.

After a minute, Grace returned, shouldering her bag. "Let's go," she said sullenly, stepping over Aziel and moving towards John. John turned back to speak to her, but instead drew his pistol. "Grace, get down!" he yelled, taking aim at the figure behind her. He fired a single shot, striking Aziel square in the forehead, but not before he bit down hard into Grace's shoulder, ripping her open.


	10. Darker Still

- August 20th, 2279 -

"NO!" yelled John as Grace cried out in shock and pain, falling to the ground. John was quickly at her side, pulling her away from the body of Aziel. "He was- he was dead!" stammered Grace, her face ashen. "I know- I know," said John, frantically securing a bandage around Grace's wound. "Oh my god," moaned Grace, slowly getting to her feet. "It's ok," said John, "It's going to be ok. But we need to get somewhere safe before nightfall." Grace tried to take a step forward, but John stopped her. "I can carry you," he said, making it clear that she had no option. "We'll leave our supplies here, I'll come back for them tomorrow morning." Wrapping his arms around Grace so one of her arms draped over his shoulders, he held her tightly and began walking towards the ridgeline that led back to Clark's Cove. He moved quickly, but kept in mind that he was carrying another. Grace said nothing, but John felt her tears. "He was dead," Grace repeated weakly, as the pair continued on through the dusk. "Apparently not," said John, trying to conceal his own horror and confusion. _"Was everything he said true?" _wondered John, _"Is Grace infected?" _

"So he just- what, woke up?" asked Grace, panic rising in her voice. "Why did he bite me?" John started walking uphill, closing in on a small cave that looked big enough for both of them and a small fire. "He lost a lot of blood from whatever- whoever- attacked him. He was delusional," he said, hoping that he was telling the truth. Finally reaching the cave, he propped Grace up against the cold stone. There was barely any room- the cave was barely more than a hollow in the side of the ridge, about the size of a large closet. "I can't move my arm!" cried Grace, still in a panic. "It's ok," said John, trying to remain calm. "You're probably going into shock. Just give it time. You'll fell better by tomorrow."

"So we just lay low for tonight?" asked Grace, her tears finally stopping. "Yeah," replied John, taking another look at Grace's ruined shoulder. The bite had almost gone to the bone, ripping skin and muscle alike. Even if it did heal correctly, it was unlikely that she would ever regain full use of the arm. The bleeding had almost completely stopped, which John thought was odd, given the severity of the wound. He replaced the bandage, and was about to leave to get some firewood, when Grace grabbed him with her good arm. "Please stay," she pleaded, her voice tired and hoarse. John nodded, and moved up against the wall next to Grace. She leaned against him, and he wrapped his arm around her once again. "You'll be ok," he said, though he knew now that he was lying. Rain began to fall outside, some of it splashing inside over the two. "You'll be ok."

- _A few miles north… - _

Kathryn groaned, waking up as rain fell on her exposed face. As she opened her eyes, she became aware of where she was- lying face up in a muddy puddle, covered in blood and dirt. She tried to sit up, but an exploding pain in her midsection held her in place on the ground. She noticed a small package to the left of her head, and turned slightly to get a better look. It was a pack of cards- her pack of cards- and had a 9mm bullet rammed straight through the center. "Oh shit," moaned Kathryn, suddenly remembering- she had been shot by that hunter, the one with the mask. She sat up, very slowly this time, realizing that the impact of the bullet, while not fatal, had most likely broken several of her ribs. When she finally sat up, she was greeted by the sight of Robert, one of her friends, who had been run through by the same hunter. Slowly getting to her feet, she set off to the south, towards the only place she knew would take her in- Hanscom Memorial Airfield.


	11. Departure

- August 21st, 2279 -

Grace coughed, forcing blood into her head and bringing with it another round of throbbing pain and confusion. She hurt all over, aching with an all-consuming pain she had not felt since she had almost died of fever when she was a young girl. Her eyes ran with uncontrolled tears, her throat was dry and raw. Her skin was slick with a cold sweat, and she shivered despite the warm morning air. She knew she was deathly sick, and figured that whatever was wrong with her had come from the bite that the hunter had given her. Her eyes widened as she thought of the hunter- dead, but still able to walk and bite! The memory of the night before brought with it a new round of pain, pulsing through her head like fire. She groaned and slid her back down against the wall of the cave, coughing again.

In stark contrast to Grace's wretched condition, that morning was quite picturesque, though the sun had not quite yet risen. A few premature sunbeams cut through the fog left over from the cold drizzle of the night before. It was very quiet- the only sound besides Grace's noises of agony was the slow _tap-tap-tap_ of water dripping down over the mouth of the cave. Grace was alone- John had gone back to retrieve their gear that had been left behind at the radio tower. Grace's condition was even more unbearable alone- she wished that he would return soon, hoping that he could do something- anything- to help her. "I don't want to die," she sighed, before lapsing into another coughing fit.

She didn't have to wait much longer for John to come back, but immediately she knew that something was wrong. His hands and face were covered in something- was it blood? Was he injured? When he stepped into the cave, Grace could see that he was bleeding profusely from innumerable deep red gashes all over his body, and his face- his face was torn up beyond recognition. Grace shrieked when she saw that his eyes were gone- torn from their sockets leaving only black holes behind. John staggered closer to Grace, half-moaning and half-screaming. She knew that he was like the hunter who bit her, and he had to die. Grace pulled up her gun level with what was left of John's head, and pulled the trigger.

John leaned tenderly over Grace, trying to keep her calm. She screamed and shot at him with a gun she imagined to be in her hand, putting herself into hysterics. Her eyes were unfocused and it was obvious that she was no longer completely in her right state of mind. John was very concerned- it was of course possible that whatever was wrong with Grace was just a normal disease she had contracted from the nasty bite, but more and more pieces were sliding into place that collaborated Aziel's story about the ancient virus. John knew that no matter what was wrong with Grace, a stimpack should help to stabilize her for the time being, giving him time to figure out how he could help her. Still trying to hold her still and keep her calm, John quickly slid the needle of the stimpack into the base of Grace's neck, right above where he had been bitten.

The pre-war cocktail of drugs and medicines would not solve their problems, he knew, but would help with her pain and keep her somewhat anesthetized. Almost immediately, Grace stopped struggling and her breathing returned to a normal rate, and her eyes focused somewhat. John came closer to her, checking her pulse and breathing- both of which were much slower than he would have hoped for. John sighed, and began to pull his hand back from Grace, but she grabbed on, feebly tugging him towards her. "Sit with me," she implored, her voice weak, but no longer frantic. "Ok," whispered John, and he took a seat next to her. "This is my fault," said Grace in a small, quiet voice. "I should never have followed you." John put his arm around her again, trying to be comforting. "No," he said, "None of this is your fault. If anything, I should have done better. I should have kept you safe." The pair sat for a few minutes, downcast, before Grace spoke again. "I don't think I'm going to get better," she said, her voice sad but calm. John tried to think of something to say, but Grace continued. "I know it's silly, but…" she took a deep breath, letting out a small chuckle that quickly turned into more coughing. "Well, I've never even kissed a boy before," said Grace, turning towards John.

"Grace…" John started, but the sadness in Grace's eyes caused him to trail off. "Ok," he said, leaning in ever so slightly. Grace pursed her lips and closed her eyes, waiting. John closed the distance between them, and Grace Winchester had the first kiss of her life. After a minute, Grace broke off the kiss slowly, her face quickly growing tired. "I'm going to sleep for just a bit," she said, her eyes already closing. "I'll be here… when you wake up," John said, too emotionally drained to do anything else. Grace murmured something else intelligible, and then closed her eyes peacefully, her head drooping forward. John moved his hand once more to check her vitals, but he already knew. She was gone.


	12. Something New

- August 22nd, 2279 -

The sentry bot guarding the old dirt road leading to Hanscom Memorial Airfield spun on it's three wheels to do another patrol, lumbering down it's well-worn route. It was a pre-War droid, and had been patrolling the same 150-square yard area for the past two-hundred years. Like all other robots, it had a restraining bolt installed to prevent it from feeling emotions, but otherwise it would have felt lonely. It had been almost a month since the last human had passed by his checkpoint, and four days since the last living organism- a white-tail deer- had wandered into detection range.

Before the war, sentry bot SB-1266 had directed tourists and military officials, neutralized trespassers and wildlife, and had even provided security during a visit from the Speaker of the House in 2051. But in the years since the bombs fell, he only met with the occasional technician for maintenance and directed the odd trader or caravan. Still, since he lacked the ability to abandon his duties, he had fulfilled his primary programming undisturbed for the past two-hundred years, guarding the same patch of dirt and grass from communists, terrorists, and saboteurs alike.

"Continuing patrol," it said aloud when it reached the end of it's track, spinning around once more. Before it could move, however, it's audio sensors picked up a twig snapping twenty-two and a half yards away, two-hundred and sixty-seven degrees from it's current position. SB-1266 turned quickly to face the sound, spinning up it's minigun hopefully. "Please present yourself for a security check," it announced, while preparing to open fire. Sadly for SB-1266, a lone woman emerged from the treeline, hands held aloft. "You know me," she said, her voice weary, "I've been here before." SB-1266 had of course already figured this out, having run her voice and face almost immediately. The woman was Kathryn White, a civilian who had been granted temporary access to the airfield because of a romantic relationship with 2nd Lt. Jordan Baker. Despite the termination of the relationship, the woman still had three days left on her temporary pass. Following protocol, SB-1266 stood down. "You are free to pass," it said, unable to feel dejected.

- _Elsewhere... _-

John had dug a small grave for Grace, still stunned by her sudden death. His mind was reeling with the implications of what had happened in the past day. Not only had a hunter inferred that they were gearing up for some sort of large-scale operation involving a fight against some sort of reanimation virus, but that same hunter had died and not ten minutes later bitten Grace, who had barely lasted six hours before dying herself. Now John was alone, his memories still gone and his only friend dead in the ground. His stomach churned when he thought of breaking the news to Grace's father. _"I should have taken better care of her," _he thought, _"This is my fault." _He blinked away tears and reached for a shovel to bury Grace, but something held him back. As far-fetched as it had seemed at the time, there was no denying that Aziel's story was at least semi-plausible now: he had bitten Grace minutes after apparently dying himself, and Grace had succumbed to a single bite by Aziel.

Unholstering his pistol, John stepped down into the grave with Grace's body. He had closed her eyes and covered her wound, preserving at least a bit of her decency. He bleakly checked her vitals one more time, but she was still cold and dead. Rigor mortis had not set in yet, meaning that she was not yet stiff. It was upsetting, but John figured that he might as well be prudent and ensure that Grace would not be following in Aziel's footsteps. He aimed the muzzle of his pistol at Grace's forehead, but stopped. Even in death, she was beautiful. John wondered now if she had been interested in him, and that was why she had followed him so far from her home. It was too late for that now, but John still felt unable to shoot her. She had been his friend, and he would not desecrate her body based on the ramblings of an insane hunter. Sighing, he reholstered his weapon. He raised himself out of the grave, but on a whim turned back, and immediately felt his insides turn to ice. Her eyes were open.


	13. Rebirth

- August 22nd, 2279 –

The old Dorsett Hospital was the sole remaining building in the tiny inland town of Glen Crossing. Once it had echoed with the bustling noises of nurses and doctors, but it was abandoned after it ran out of supplies, and with the rest of the town crumbling away, it's indefensible layout meant that few had tried to settle there for more than a night or two. Still, it was easily recognizable as a landmark as the three-story building towered over the surrounding plain, offering a commanding view from it's rooftop.

Sometimes, hunters would perch on top and wait for a hapless deer to wander by, but after the gunshots had finished echoing, Dorsett Hospital returned to silence. On this day, however, the hospital echoed with screams of pain. On the empty second floor, one man was seated, tied to a chair, while two men stood next to him. A woman was seated in the nearby windowsill, a scoped rifle rested in her calm hands. The two standing men and the woman all bore matching tattoos on their hands, and were clearly in the middle of an interrogation of the seated man, who bore the tattoos of a raider all over most of his body.

"Let's try again," said the larger of the standing men, "There's a man somewhere on this island with a tattoo like ours. He would have shown up several days ago, probably on the coast. Your girlfriend-"

"Probably ex-girlfriend now," muttered the woman under her breath.

"Your girlfriend," continued the man, "Told us that you know where he is. You have ten seconds." The raider struggled against his restraints, but to no avail. "Listen," he spat, "If you lost your boy that ain't no trouble of mine- let me the fuck out of here!"

"Five… Four… Three…"

"Fuck yo-!" the raider yelled, cut off by a brutal punch from the shorter man.

"Very well," said the larger man, "We'll do this the hard way." He nodded to his partner, who grabbed both a syringe and a lighter off a nearby medical cart. The woman propped her rifle up against the wall and came up behind the raider, attaching a piece of tape over his mouth. The smaller man began heating up the end of the syringe until it glowed white-hot, then handed it to the other man. Pausing for only a second, he pricked the raider on the side of his elbow, then ripped the syringe down towards his wrist. The man screamed through the tape, and the larger man stepped back. "Now, I'm going to remove the tape. You tell us where our friend is, or this needle is going in your eye." He handed the needle back to the other man, who promptly began reheating it, the traces of blood fizzling. The larger man removed the tape. "You fucking bastards!" the raider screamed, still struggling against his bonds. "You don't understand, the guys I hear stuff from, they trust me with their secrets, alright?"

"Sounds like your problem, not ours," said the woman, who sauntered back to her post in the windowsill.

"No, it is your problem- these guys, they wanted to kill your friend!"

"We already know that," said the larger man, taking back the heated syringe. "Which is why we're in a bit of a rush. So…" He continued, trailing off, motioning for the raider to continue.

"Listen, they'll kill me!" the raider pleaded, "They probably know where I am, and they'll kill me if they think I talked!"

"And you think we won't?" said the smaller man, attaching another piece of tape over the man's mouth. The taller man used one hand to pry open one of the raider's eyelids, ignoring the man's muffled screams. He then plunged the red-hot needle into the raider's eye, not even bothering to take it out. Blood and gore splattered over the dusty linoleum floor with a sickly squirt. The three tattooed soldiers waited about five minutes for the screaming and struggling to stop, then removed the tape again. "Right now you're only half-blind," said the smaller man, withdrawing the syringe again with a sickening sucking noise. "We could go all the way."

"Fuck you guys! Fuck you all!" the raider sobbed, blood and viscous fluid seeping from his ruined eye. "He's in Clark's Cove! Clark's Cove!"

"Now," said the smaller man, "That could have saved you an eye five minutes ago."

"They're here," said the woman, peering through the scope of her rifle. "Which means we gotta be gone."

"Fuck!" screamed the raider, still struggling. "They'll know I told you! They'll kill me!"

"Like I said," said the woman as the trio packed up and moved out of sight, "Your problem."

- Several miles away… -

John struggled to remain calm and control his breathing. He had closed Grace's eyes only a minute ago, hadn't he? But now, her green eyes were locked on him. "This is just a reflex," he thought out loud, "This happens all the time." His heart beating rapidly, he took a deep breath and stepped back down into the grave. Slowly, he closed Grace's eyes again. He waited a minute, but nothing happened. He wasn't sure whether to be relieved or dejected. The image of Aziel biting down on Grace's shoulder flashed through his mind, making him flinch. _Was he really dead? Had he been telling the truth? Was Grace coming back? _

John shook his head- of course his friend was not coming back as some sort of zombie, and he was embarrassing himself and degrading Grace's burial. _Pull your self together! _Standing up out of the grave again, John holstered his pistol and reached for the small hand shovel he had used to dig the grave. He scooped up a small pile of dirt, and was about to put it back into the grave, when he dropped the shovel in shock. Hey eyes were open again- and they were fixed on him. His heart felt like it was about to explode: this couldn't be happening. Cautiously, he stepped around to the other side of the grave. After only a few seconds of waiting, Grace's eyes shifted over to fixate on him again.

Gasping, John sunk down to the ground. He drew his pistol. He knew that if hell _had _frozen over and Aziel was telling the truth, he probably only had minutes until Grace was a monster. Clicking the safety off, he took a deep breath. _Just to be sure, _he thought, _better safe than sorry. _Grace's eyes were still staring at him as he lowered himself back into the grave for the third time that day. Leaning down, he prepared to close Grace's eyes for the last time, but to his shock and surprise, she blinked. "Jesus!" swore John, reeling back. He had no idea what to do.

He leaned over her again, studying her face, and sure enough, she blinked again. Keeping his pistol ready, he put two of his fingers on Grace's neck, and waited. Sure enough, he soon felt a soft pulse. _Thum-thump. _


	14. Distance

- August 22nd, 2279 -

John had waited for another hour after he had discovered Grace's pulse, not daring to go near her again. He sat at the edge of her hastily dug grave and waited, pistol in hand, for what he was now sure was going to come next. Though the idea that Aziel had been telling the truth about the virus was an earth-shaking revelation, John was more concerned with the fact that in the next few minutes, in all likelihood, he would have to shoot Grace in the head. His stomach turned when he even thought about how he would begin to explain this to her father- all of this had happened because he had allowed her to follow him, instead of escorting her back home immediately. John had only known Grace for a short time, but he had liked her a lot. The other citizens of Clark's Cove were all wary of him, eager to ask for his help but shooing their children away from him- John had figured that it was because someone like him, a killer, reminded them about the rest of the wasteland, that even though Clark's Cove was picturesque and calm, the rest of the island was a barely-restrained warzone. But not Grace. She had been eager to talk to him, to help him around even after her father had stopped forcing her to. And now she was dead.

John sat for about ten more minutes, then he saw her twitch. Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, he thumbed the action back on his pistol. _"Why have I waited this long?" _he wondered. But he knew he couldn't have done it without being sure. He had to be sure. Grace twitched again, then once again fixed her eyes on him. Standing up, John took aim and pulled the trigger, just as Grace gasped, "No!"

"God damn it!" swore John, his round landing high, impacting harmlessly in the dirt. He dropped his pistol, scrambling back to Grace's side. She had just begun to sit up, her eyes not quite focused. "Grace?" he asked, helping her up into a sitting position. "Grace, are you there?" She grabbed onto him, breathing rapidly. "I'm here," she answered weakly. "Oh my God," said John, pulling her close.

Shortly after she woke up, she was able to stand. John pulled her up out of her grave, sitting beside her. "I have no idea what just happened," he admitted, "but I owe you an explanation." He told her everything that he knew about the last twenty-four hours- what Aziel had said, Grace being bitten, her delirium and death, and eventual reawakening. Grace confessed that she remembered nothing after being bitten until she woke up in the ground. "You don't understand," continued John, "You were _dead. _I checked over and over- you were _completely gone._"

"Well then how did I wake up?" asked Grace, still disbelieving of the entire situation. "Are you sure you've got all of this right?"

"I don't- yes!" said John, "You were sick, then just gone a few hours later. I _buried you!" _He was deeply unnerved by the turn of events- first a dead man killed Grace with a nasty bite, then she herself died and came back seemingly unharmed?

Grace pushed herself away from John, her look of skepticism replaced with shock. "Why were you trying to shoot me?" she asked, glancing at the pistol still lying in the dirt.

John's eyes widened- she didn't remember. _"Just like me," _he thought. Trying to speak calmly, he explained again that Aziel had said that anyone who was bit would turn violent several hours after apparent death, as he himself had demonstrated.

"So you were going to _shoot me_ on the word of some lunatic hunter that bit me?" she asked angrily. "Why on earth did I follow you out here?"

John thought about responding, but remembered how he had acted the first night in Clark's Cove. He couldn't help but feel overwhelmed: he had a hard enough time believing the events of the previous day himself, so he had no idea how to explain it to someone in Grace's position.

After a tense second, Grace's shoulders slumped. "I'm sorry," she said wearily, "I just… don't understand. I don't remember." She took a deep breath, her anger thankfully gone. "But if you said that's what happened, then that's what happened." John was about to speak, but she cut him off. "Let's just get back home," she said, "Dad'll know what to do about all of this."

Gathering up their belongings, the pair set off again for home. "I think I remember one thing," said Grace as they started again on the trail. "Did you kiss me?"

"No," said John quickly, "You must've been dreaming."


	15. Convergence

- August 23rd, 2279 -

"I'm sorry I was mad," said Grace. "I just- I still don't know what's going on."

"That makes two of us," answered John, walking ahead of her. "Let's just get you back home. I told your dad I'd be back in two days, and it's been twice that. Plus his daughter's been missing- though I doubt you know anything about that." His tone was tired and a little sharp, he was still confused and upset from the recent turn of events. Grace, far from oblivious, easily picked up on it. Against her better judgment, she decided to continue the conversation.

"He won't blame you," said Grace, rubbing her still sore shoulder, a memento of the last few days. "And neither do I."

"What would give you any right to blame me for what's happened?" asked John frigidly, still not turning around to face her.

"That's not what I meant," sighed Grace, growing exasperated. "I just meant that this isn't your fault, and I- I recognize that. I'm sorry."

"Let's just get you home," said John in a neutral tone. He was venting, and he knew it, but he could smooth things over later. Right now he just didn't feel like talking. The left strap of his pack had been digging into his shoulder for the last few miles, but he left it alone- it gave him something else to focus on.

Though it was doubtful that either Grace or John would take the time to appreciate it, Blackrock was especially picturesque that morning. The rain of the previous night had left a thin fog over the hills of the western side of the island, not too thick as to impair the vision, but still easily noticeable. The plants bobbed slowly back and forth in the gentle morning breeze, occasionally flicking droplets of dew onto the ground. The suns rays were just beginning to cut through the fog, each ray framed by the haze.

Still, the beauty was lost on the pair trekking back towards Clark's Cove. Unable to continue in silence, Grace tried conversation again. "Do you think you'll stay in Clark's Cove?" she asked, hoping he wouldn't brush her off again. "After we get back I mean."

"I don't think they'll let me," said John after a minute. "Your people were wary of me before, but all of this… this is over the top. I mean, you don't even believe me, and you were there."

"Nothing was your fault!" protested Grace, "_I _came after _you, _not the other way around."

"I get the feeling that this kind of thing doesn't happen to people around here often," said John, "I don't think they'll exactly relate to me."

"Who is _they, _anyway?" asked Grace, trying to keep up. "Who exactly is going to make you leave?"

"I've been a guest here, your town has already done more than enough for me," he said, finally stopping and turning to face her. "After all this, I think I've more than overstayed my welcome."

Grace knew he was right. The townspeople, though grateful for his help, were already starting to edge him out, and that was before the events of the previous day.

"As soon as I drop you off with your father, I'm leaving," continued John. "You should be fine, I'll stop by the doctor's before I go to fill him in."

Grace wanted to say something, but she knew he was right.

- An hour earlier… -

Nikta looked at his watch. Two hours. Aziel was a professional, and he assumed the same was true of Taryal, his mainland contact. If they had let two hours pass from their extraction time, they were either captured or dead. Nikta checked his watch again, angrily grinding his boot in the dirt. Aziel had been a good scout and an excellent shot- his loss was not a small one. Moreover, Nikta now had a choice to make, and he knew that no matter his decision, he would be punished. He could either venture into the mainland with the squad at his disposal and try to locate the object Aziel had been after, or he could stick to the timetable established by his superiors. Nikta sighed, glancing around while he mulled over each option. Turning to the three hunters standing behind him, he broke the silence. "We're going to proceed as planned. We'll complete the secondary objective, then make our way back to the boats," he instructed. He noticed the other hunter's faces harden: Aziel had been well liked, and the idea of leaving him to his fate did not sit well with his peers. Still, Nikta was respected and the men knew better than to question him. As they packed up and prepared to move, one approached Nikta. "Have you decided on a location for the secondary objective?" he asked, tapping a metal briefcase that he carried. "Yes," said Nikta, his voice dry. "Clark's Cove."


	16. Profession of Arms

-August 22nd, 2279-

Jordan Baker was a quiet but well-read man, the sort of intellectual that would have performed admirably as a politician or an industrialist, had he been born several centuries earlier. However, nuclear armageddon had opened another door for Baker- the life of military service. Born into the 67th Airborne, he had quickly risen to become the holder of the only officer rank, that of a 2nd Lieutenant. Since their numbers had dwindled from their pre-war days, the 67th now only consisted of a single platoon numbering 55 strong, meaning that all members except Baker were counted as enlisted personnel. There were some volunteers that came to the unit, but most of their recruits were born into the service: those with parents in the regiment regularly chose to follow in their parent's footsteps. Jordan Baker was one such recruit: his father had been the officer in charge years ago, and his mother had served in the regiment's hospital. Starting his service when he was 16, Jordan served with distinction for eight years before being promoted to replace his father, who sadly died alongside his mother in a hangar explosion that also destroyed two of the last functional fixed wing aircraft in the country. Baker had enjoyed the guidance of his parents, and was deeply hurt by their deaths. Seeking some measure of comfort, he began a romantic relationship with Kathryn White, a local girl. Though they cared deeply about each other, Kathryn disliked the trappings of military life. She eventually was discovered to be involved with a local raider group, and so Jordan had to end the relationship, a decision that still hurt him even after weeks had passed.

Presently, Jordan was in his office, poring over reports. Though the regiment was obviously not being tasked in the same way as it was before the war, there was still plenty of work for the 67th Airborne on Blackrock. They ran a hospital, grew and distributed crops, and used their three operational vertibirds for mapping operations as well as hit-and-run attacks on known raider hideouts. Jordan had served especially well in this last role, proving to be an excellent marksman and combatant. Though he longed to go into combat again, he knew it to be irresponsible- whether he liked it or not, his desk was where he belonged now. Pausing in his work, Jordan glanced at the clock across from him, being surprised that it was already 4:30 in the morning. He would have to be ready to lead physical training in three hours, and that meant he needed at least a bit of sleep. Closing his reports with a sigh, he hesitated for a second, then, against his better judgment, pulled out a small framed photograph from his desk drawer. She was beautiful: short, black hair stopping neatly at her shoulders, a smiling, heart shaped face adorned with deep blue eyes, all atop a graceful and lithe body. Jordan felt a deep ache when he looked at her- he knew he should have gotten rid of the picture a while ago, but he still held onto some fantasy that she would come back to him. "Kathryn…" he sighed again, placing the photo back into the drawer. _No sense in lingering,_ he thought, and stood up to leave. At that moment, a knock came at his door. "Enter," he said, hastily closing his desk drawer. A nurse opened the door, rendering a quick salute. "Sir," she began, "We've just admitted a woman to the clinic. She's asking for you."

"Very well, I'll speak to her in a few hours."

"Sir," continued the nurse, "She says it's urgent- she appears to have been wounded in some sort of firefight."

"Ok," said Jordan, gathering up the reports on his desk. "What is her name?"

"White, sir, Kat-" began the nurse, but Jordan had already taken off down the hall, his usual calm march replaced by a frantic sprint. "Very well, sir," continued the nurse, peering after him.


	17. Nostalgia

- August 22nd, 2279 -

Kathryn turned in her hospital bed, facing the doorway where Jordan was standing. She was a little taken aback when she saw him- he looked more than a bit ragged around the edges. She could attribute some of it to the earliness of the hour, but he definitely looked worn down. His green eyes were faded and tired, with deep bags under them. His spiky black hair was beginning to show a few flecks of grey, and sat flatly on his head. Kathryn sighed, knowing that her departure was the reason for his despondent appearance. She was in too much pain to feel guilt in her current condition, and was almost thankful for it. "The nurse said you were in a firefight," said Jordan, taking a step closer. "Yeah," said Kathryn, feeling almost shy being in Jordan's company again. She sat up in her bed, saying, "I was with… with some friends… and we got attacked by hunters. Just two of them, and they killed probably a dozen of us."

Jordan frowned. "These friends wouldn't happen to have been those raiders you left… here… for?"

"No," she lied, trying not to avert her eyes. "Just some people I met on the road."

Jordan took a seat by her bed. "Are you ok?" he asked after a long pause. "How badly are you hurt?"

"One of them shot me point-blank, but your pack of cards stopped the bullet. It must have been some kind of misfire," she said, gesturing to the pack of cards with a bullet embedded in it on the bedside table. Jordan liked to keep a pack of cards on his desk to fiddle with when he got bored- he used to smoke, and part of quitting meant he had to do something with his hands or else he had trouble concentrating. Kathryn must have taken a pack before she left. "Still had enough power to break my ribs, though," she said with a small smile before lapsing into a coughing fit. "I can be gone tomorrow," she said, eyes downcast. "I just needed a place to stay tonight." She knew Jordan would let her stay as long as she liked, and would probably try to make her stay longer than she wanted to, but she knew he wanted to say it. "No," he said, his face softening. "You'll stay until you're better. You can stay as long as you like. I'll renew your visitor's pass today."

"It never expired," she murmured as he turned away to leave.


	18. To Dust

- August 23rd, 2279 -

Nikta sat like a statue on the edge of Red Ridge, overlooking the town of Clark's Cove. Clad in his combat harness and jungle boots, he looked almost like a pre-War soldier, except for the hunter tattoos covering most of his body. With his slicked-back dark hair and well-muscled body, he cut an imposing figure. Despite this, an attentive observer would notice that his eyes betrayed troubling thoughts. Inside, Nikta's mind was burning. _I'm glad he's dead, _he thought, referring to Aziel. Though he would never dare speak it aloud, he knew it to be true. Though Aziel was a model hunter and soldier, and indeed looked up to Nikta, the feeling was not mutual. Nikta's resentment came from the simple fact that Aziel had accomplished something that constantly eluded Nikta- Aziel was liked by the others. From an early age, Nikta knew that he was to be an accomplished soldier for his tribe. When others his age were barely able to hit a target at fifty yards, Nikta could assemble and disassemble a dozen different weapons, and use them all with lethal effectiveness. He trained his mind and body, quickly gaining the respect of many other hunters. However, the young man soon found that respect did little to fill the hole that his isolative training regimen had created. He craved companionship and inclusion, things that seemed trivial to so many of his colleagues while remaining elusive to Nikta himself. He was far from socially inept- he could speak well and handled the sometimes convoluted intricacies of tribal politics with ease, but still he felt crushed by the loneliness that he had brought upon himself. Through a mixture of respect and fear, other hunters gave him a wide berth, a fact of which he was acutely aware. However, Aziel had almost immediately befriended the entire unit when he was transferred to Nikta's command, and in doing so, immediately subjected himself to the ire of his commander. Nikta was far too professional to let his jealously show, but nonetheless he was far from upset that Aziel was gone.

One of his subordinates approached, shaking Nikta from his thoughts. "Sir," he said, "It's ready when you are."

"Very well," answered Nikta, getting to his feet. "Once we're at a safe distance activate the transponder."

After a moment's pause, the young soldier spoke again. "Sir, should we proceed with this even without the cure?"

"With or without the cure," said Nikta, starting off down the path, "The virus comes to the mainland today."

- Later that day… -

John and Grace had continued their awkward silence for the majority of their approach to Clark's Cove. John fully intended to make good on his promise to leave the town after he deposited Grace back with her father, but he also wanted to apologize. The past few days had been… weird… for the both of them, and knew they were both confused and frustrated. He opened his mouth to try and start talking again, but before he could say anything, the wind shifted.

Both of them could smell the difference in the air- it was smoky and hot. Moreover, it was coming from Clark's Cove. John turned, but he was too late- Grace had taken off running, cresting the hill that lead into town. John followed her, soon reaching the top of the same hill, allowing a view of the entire town sprawled out in front of him. John's eyes went wide- the smoldering mess that lay before him bore no resemblance to the town he had left intact only days ago. Clark's Cove was gone.


	19. Empty Houses

- August 23rd, 2279 -

John dropped his pack and took off running after Grace, ash crunching under his feet. He drew his sidearm, trying desperately to keep the running girl in his sight. As his head began to clear, he became more aware of different sounds, offering up information. Gunshots- there were still survivors of the attack, and they were fighting. He heard Grace screaming for her father, for Scarlet, other people John did not know. Grace began running down the main street of the town, which she had been showing to John in the quiet sunshine only a week earlier. Now, the houses were burning, some smashed to pieces by John guessed to be an explosion. _Some kind of missile attack? _he mused, trying to absorb as much information as possible. Dodging the fire, he moved to follow Grace, but was alerted by the sound of wood splintering and buckling- quickly backpedaling, he avoided being crushed as the entire façade of a house gave way and smashed into the street. He called out for Grace to stop, but she paid him no attention, kicking in the door to her house and running inside. Seeing no other way to reach her quickly, John holstered his pistol and clambered over the still smoldering ruins in front of him. He could feel the skin on his hands blister and bubble up from the heat. By the time he was over, his shooting hand had gone numb. Gritting his teeth, he moved onwards, following Grace into her house.

Inside, he could see the torched remnants of the living room in which he had sat less than a week before. Kicking aside a smoldering sofa cushion, John quickly proceeded to clear the living room, then move into the kitchen. "Grace?" he yelled out, kicking open the few remaining doors on the ground floor. Finding nothing, he moved toward what remained of the staircase. "Grace!" he yelled again, charging up the staircase. Moving to the entrance of the master bedroom, he saw that the door was slightly ajar. Pushing it open, he saw Grace kneeling on the floor, beside her father. _Oh no, _John thought, trying to see if the old man was still living. Stepping closer, he could see that Roy was clinging to consciousness- but only just barely. Grace was whispering to him, trying to keep him focused. She shot him a wide-eyed glance, obviously wanting help. John took her place beside her father's side, asking questions and checking for wounds. "What happened, Mr. Winchester?" John asked, pulling him into a sitting position against the footboard of his bed. "Who did this?"

"No… idea…" he struggled to say. Though he was a tough man, Roy was obviously barely coherent. John quickly discovered the problem- most of the back of his head was bruised to a deep black, and appeared to be slightly concave. Roy had obviously suffered massive head trauma during the attack on the town. "Are they still here?" asked John, continuing with the questions to keep Roy alert. "…No," Roy worked out after a deep breath. "Not a raid…. an… explosion!" John nodded- he had guessed as much. Still mortar or rocket attacks were usually just the beginning of an assault, not the end. "Where are the other survivors?" John asked, finishing his medical once-over. Roy said nothing, breathing heavily. Eventually, his eyes locked on John's and he answered: "Gone."

"Gone? As in dead?" John was trying to put together a picture of what had happened, and how he was going to get all three of them out of it. However, Roy did not- and likely could not- respond. His face had gone completely white, and sweat covered his shivering skin. He had gone into shock, and simply staying awake was probably a battle in and of itself. Turning to Grace, he saw that she had gone completely pale as well, tears welling up in her eyes. _They'll be time to mourn later, _John thought. The floorboards creaked and groaned- the house had obviously sustained massive damage and would doubtlessly collapse soon. "We have to move," he ordered to Grace, quickly seizing the shotgun from Roy's dresser and sliding it to her. "I'll carry your father, you keep watch." Grace shot him a confused look and was about to ask, but John cut her off- "I doubt this is over yet. Come on."

Pulling Roy upwards in a fireman's carry, John still had his left hand free to fire his handgun. Moving at a slow and uneasy pace, the trio moved back downstairs. The stairs creaked and groaned, but held their weight. Moving outside, they found that the smoke from the numerous fires had formed a thick blanket over the town, reflecting the firelight and casting the burning buildings into a hellish red. "Where are the others," hissed Grace in a whisper, shaking her head. "Where are all the other people?"

"Gone," said John, gesturing to Roy. "Maybe they heard this coming- maybe they ran."

"All of them?" said Grace, "No way- we used to do these drills, my dad would see how fast we all could get to one of the safety bunkers in the hills."

"And…?" responded John.

"It always took us _hours_. This… whatever… was less than one hour ago, it looks like the town is empty."

"Well, fear of death is usually a big motivator."

"I guess," said Grace, clearly unconvinced.

"What about those safety bunkers?"

"What about them?" said Grace, not understanding.

"We need to get out of the city- now!" John said urgently, raising his voice a bit. Grace thought for a second, then responded, "They're no good- we stopped maintenance on them a while ago, they kept on flooding."

"But the structures are intact?" Asked John, thinking hard. "Where is the nearest one?"

"Still pretty far away," said Grace worriedly. "We have to keep on this road and then take the old trail into the hills, but they planted crops over it when I was little- I don't know if I could find the trail anymore."

"Did they have pumps to clear the water?"

"I don't know- listen, I've only been to see these things once! When I was six!"

"We'll have to take our chances, then."

Grace looked around worriedly, then grabbed John's free arm, bringing him around to face her. "What exactly are we running from? Why aren't we looking for survivors?"

John swallowed, visibly stressed. "I don't know. Something here… it's wrong. The people, the fires, just… Something!" He half-yelled, still carrying Roy over his back. "I just know- this isn't over yet. Not by a long shot. We need to leave."

"Ok," said Grace, "But… I'm checking Scarlet's house before we leave. I have to."

"Fine," sighed John, "Let's get going."

By this time, the fires were beginning to die out, having run out of fuel. Clark's Cove was returning to silence, the smoke was beginning to clear. John was clearly nervous, which in turn put Grace on edge. In the days that she had known him, she had started to think of him as some kind of professional, unflinching in the face of danger. But with his story about her… episode, her supposed death, and now his instinct to flee when her town needed her most? Grace knew that she had to stick with John for long enough to help her father, but after that… she couldn't help but think that she might be better off without the mysterious man from the ocean. After only a few minutes walk, they had arrived at Scarlet's family house. Though of course it was burned, it was still standing- if only for the moment. "I'll be right back," murmured Grace, and she moved into the smoldering house, calling for her friend. "I've seen this before," said John, though he knew no one was listening. "This is… from before. I can almost remember- I know it!" But his memories remained elusive, even in his moment of anxiety. A few minutes later, Grace emerged from the house, fresh tears on her face. She shook her head, and sullenly nodded towards the road out of town. "Let's go."


	20. Reaction Time

- August 23rd, 2279 -

Sentry bot SB-1266 rarely needed to double-check anything. Its optics could spot a glowing cigarette ember at 155 yards, its audio sensors could sense footsteps half a black away- it was a robot built for precision. However, on this morning, SB-1266 followed through on a protocol it had used only a handful of times throughout its operational lifespan: double-checking. Several seconds ago, then several seconds before that, at the very edge of his sensor range: a barely detectable noise. _Footsteps?_ If they were indeed footsteps, they were quieter than SB-1266 considered possible, which in and of itself was a statistical improbability. Still, the possibility of intrusion freed 1266 to investigate, something which would enjoy if it could. Scuttling forward in the dirt, SB-1266 realized that the noises had stopped. _It knows it's been spotted, perhaps?_

- _A few yards away… _-

"Shit," muttered Drach, the scope of his rifle bumping his flash goggles. He motioned to the hunters several yards behind him to wait, then decided to take his shot.

- _A few yards back…_ -

The .32-caliber round bounced harmlessly off of the armor plated sentry bot. If SB-1266 could express human emotions, it would be hysterical with happiness- for the first time since the bombs fell, it sounded the alarm back at the airfield, and said with authority, "Weapons free!"


End file.
